


dirk eats caliborn out

by Elendraug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cloaca, Cloacalingus, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Foreplay, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Self-Indulgent, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: they're married





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2x2verse (agent_florida)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/gifts), [quenive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/gifts).



> [♫ boards of canada - oscar see through red eye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RgKEsOL35qk)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you 2x2verse for pointing out that there aren't a lot of fics written from the perspective of the person receiving head when that person has a cloaca/nook/vagina
> 
> thank you to my friend for the advice, you know who you are
> 
> thank you quenive for cheering me on
> 
> finally, this fic is dedicated to everyone who thinks caliborn doesn't deserve affection in his life, thank you all for giving me the motivation to write about him and dirk being _so goddamn in love with each other_

  
uu: LIKE. HE ACTuALLY LISTENS.  
uu: TO [STuFF THAT'S IMPORTANT](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=007087) FOR A DuDE TO GET OFF HIS CHEST.  


* * *

“What’re you working on?”

It’s not until Caliborn sets the stylus down that Dirk’s arms come around his shoulders. It’s a relief that he’s considerate of that, but then, he’s an artist, too. Of course he knows how that shit goes.

“It’s LOCAM.” Caliborn lifts his hands to hold onto Dirk’s forearms, stroking his claws lightly over the bones of his wrists, over his knuckles. “The way I remember it.”

“Am I crazy?” Dirk rests his chin on top of Caliborn’s head as he speaks. “Or had you gotten farther on it than this?”

“I had. The program crashed.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” If he’d kept hold of the stylus, he could’ve acted in the image of the Cairo Overcoat, clasping it with arms crossed over his chest. Instead, he slides his palm up to trace over Dirk’s upper arm, tilts his head up and back to lean towards the embrace. “It’s all right, though.”

Dirk’s warm and solid behind him, his body pressed more to the back of the desk chair than against Caliborn, but reassuring all the same. “That shit would piss me off.”

“I’m pissed, yeah.” He looks back at the screen, hopes that Dirk’s eyes follow his to survey the canvas. “I had to start over almost from the beginning, but I get to fix the shit I fucked up last time.”

“Every iteration earns you some improvement, right?”

“I have to hope so.” He presses his thumb into Dirk’s bicep; Dirk turns his head to lean his cheek against the crown of Caliborn’s skull. “Otherwise I’m going in circles.”

“Sometimes that can be nice.”

“How?”

“Like this.”

Caliborn feels him shift backward and away, far enough to allow room to place his hands on his shoulders, to move his thumbs in equal and opposite rotations, digging into trapezius muscle. 

“Is that why you came in here?” Caliborn closes his eyes and lets himself focus on Dirk’s fingertips working out the tension that’s started to set into his shoulders from sitting so long. “To distract me?”

“I can stop, if you wanna keep working.” Dirk’s hands move to trail up his neck, his fingers fanning out to massage the back of his head, his thumbs continuing to rub at either side of his spine and now his cervical vertebrae, over the slight ridges that rise just scarcely above the rest of his scales. “Do you want me to wait?”

The attention to his scutes sends a shiver through him; Caliborn lets his head fall back towards Dirk’s touches, sighs slowly, smiles. “No.”

Dirk kisses his forehead, lets his lips linger against his skin. “You work real hard, man.”

“Well. I want to.” Caliborn flicks his tongue out, reflexively, for half a second; he can smell him, everything about him and his warmth, his laundry detergent, his deodorant, his specific sweat and pheromones. Everything about him is comforting; he’s always been everything that’s comforting. “I enjoy it.”

“I support you, my lazy gay snake.”

Caliborn laughs, and tilts his head back far enough in the chair that Dirk can catch his mouth in a kiss, upside-down, brief and on top of his teeth. “Don’t meme on me.”

“The Gadsden flag gets me wicked hot, dude.” 

Caliborn looks up at him, sly but fond. “Is this leading into a radical freedom joke?”

“I’m as rad as Sartre on a skateboard.” Dirk’s hands slide back down to his back, smoothing out the thick knit wool of his sweater, seeking his shoulder blades even when the desk chair gets in the way. “You know I’ll fight for snake freedoms.”

Caliborn leans away from the chair, slumps forward just enough that so Dirk can touch him with full access. “Just don’t bring free radicals into this.”

“Don’t matter.” His efforts trail to the front, his palms splayed across Caliborn’s chest. “Can’t get sick. We’re gods now.”

“I am your _lord_ , specifically.” He feels his pulse pick up, settled behind his ribs, beneath Dirk’s hands touching him. “That’s what I told the residents of deviantART, anyway.”

“Take me to snurch,” Dirk says, whispering this affirmation against Caliborn’s skin as if it’s reverent, and somehow, it almost is. “Snake church.”

Caliborn laughs again, shakes his head, lets out a deep sigh. “You are already here.”

Dirk moves downward, to leave breathy kisses down behind his jawline, to his throat where it meets the collar of his sweater. “What if I ate you out?”

Caliborn angles his head to the side, to let Dirk keep kissing him, and inhales through his teeth. “God, I wouldn’t say no.”

Dirk’s hands slide down his chest, to his stomach, teasing at the hem of his sweater. The angle is awkward, as he navigates around the chair, but it’s plenty to get Caliborn’s stomach muscles tensing and lifting towards his touching. “I take it that’s a yes?”

Caliborn arches back in the chair, exposes his throat to Dirk’s mouth, sighs as the kissing crosses his collarbone, where the sweater’s too big for his body and has shifted off-center. “That’s a _hell_ fucking yes.”

With the full go-ahead, Dirk sweeps his hands down even further, to where the dark storm grey of the wool makes way for the bright lime green of his boxers, a stark contrast against his shirt and his scales. He’s leaning over him, his mammalian warmth waking every residual alert in Caliborn’s body, in the vestigial heat pits set beneath his jawline, covered by his skin but still functional. There are days when he's too hot in this proximity.

Dirk cups his hand on top of Caliborn’s crotch, top down, the pads of his fingers pressing into the loose fabric, his fingertips testing the line of his [cloacal flap](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/116620825475/unified-theory-of-cherub-junk-the-lifes-work-of) where it’s just barely visible through the thin cotton. Caliborn bucks his hips against his hand, reaches back to reach for Dirk’s hair, to curl his claws through it as Dirk speaks into the spot behind his jawline, where Dirk’s breathing is a familiar feeling against the subtle location of his ear.

Dirk’s eyes are half-lidded, unashamed as he gives word to it. “I want you to come on my tongue.”

“I love your tongue.”

Dirk kisses him then, sweetly, against the high rise of his cheekbone. “I love you.”

Caliborn arches back to reach his mouth with his own, to cradle the back of his head with his claws and bring him in for a kiss. Dirk’s mouth is so soft, so much more pliable than even what he’d imagined, years ago in front of his computer, fantasizing about a day he thought could never arrive soon enough.

But he’s here.

“I love _you_.” A mirrored statement, no less true for being echoed back.

“Hella.” Dirk’s mouth curls into a smile against his cheek, punctuates the thought with a second kiss to his face. “Let’s get your underwear off.”

Caliborn swivels the desk chair away from his computer, where the monitor still reflects the recreation of the colors and mayhem that permeated his brainspace, backlighting him as he faces Dirk. Dirk, who’s been there as he’s soothed and distilled the static on an infinite array of screens, who’s stayed beside him until he can focus, who’s held his hand across digital distance up to and including this point, as he kneels before him, far less a supplicant than a lover, to lay his lips on the scar tissue that marks his skin against the edge of his prosthesis.

The welcome stress of anticipation settles into his stomach as Dirk brings himself forward to rest hands on his hips, as Caliborn grabs the armrests of his desk chair, digs his claws into the upholstery when Dirk sweeps his fingers under the hem of his sweater and leaves exhaled moisture clinging to his skin beneath the knit. He’s tense, eager, with his hemipenes everting gradually the more Dirk touches him, the more Dirk’s chin hovers above his boxers, the more Dirk leans over and gives him a glance at the musculature of his chest where the tank top’s collar hangs down.

Dirk rests his head in his lap, his arms curled back around his hips, his fingertips finding his scutes beneath the sweater, at the base of his spine. His head is heavy and his breath is hot, and Dirk hugs him at the outside of his thighs, with his exhalations wafting warmth beneath the cloth of his shorts.

Caliborn runs his claws through his hair with the utmost in care, teasing out the tangles, and lets out a deep, shuddering sigh as Dirk sticks his tongue out to lick flat across the fabric. 

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, before Dirk’s kissing at the waistband of his boxers, where his navel would be were he not a reptile.

Dirk’s lips are on his skin, kissing close and breathing out as he hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs down, touches his mouth to the spot above his slit. “I want to lick you.”

“ _God_.” Caliborn squirms, sinking down into the chair, his stomach tense, throwing his focus into the swelling heat of his hemipenes as they flare further out, as they’re exposed to the air and to Dirk’s attention. “Suck me off.”

Dirk pulls his boxers past his knees, over the gilded edge of his prosthesis, down to the floor past his matched, if mismatching, feet. He settles in on his own weight, leans into Caliborn’s lap, and laps with a lax tongue, licks along the edge of his slit. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Caliborn flicks his tongue out, tastes the scent of saliva, of himself, aroused and waiting for Dirk to make a move. “Yes.”

“Mmm.” Dirk makes the sound before he slips his lips around one hemipenis, seals against his vent with gentle suction, works the sensitive tissue with a wet and welcomed tongue. “Mmmm,” again, vocalized, thrumming through him to remind him of a deep-seated ache, of needing to get fucked, clenching his empty cloaca around nothing.

Caliborn shifts his ass towards the edge of the seat, towards Dirk’s waiting mouth, with Dirk’s fingers digging into his hips, into his ass and his thighs as he hauls him forward. “Fuck, Dirk, _yeah_.”

Dirk’s fingers skate across his scales, over the bony jut of his hips, keeps his tongue fluttering against the giving, supple texture of his hemipenis, through which he can feel every point of pressure, every lap of his tongue, the close heat of Dirk’s mouth sucking him down. Caliborn watches him with heavily lidded eyes, feels his breath grow ragged, pushes his hips up towards Dirk’s chin.

“Nngh, fuck.” He thrusts towards him, and Dirk bobs his head with the movements, his lips locked to the edge of his vent, teasing and tasting him. “Oh fuck, can you—”

“Hm?”

Caliborn tenses with the tightness in the pit of his stomach, on edge, already ready to come. Dirk knows what he likes, how he likes it, after all this time spent learning to pleasure each other. “Put your tongue in me?”

Dirk pulls off, licks at his hypersensitive hemipenis in pointed, quick flicks until his hips jolt, until he’s moaning in sharp staccato and arching his spine, scrambling to get his legs over Dirk’s shoulders. “I can do that.”

Caliborn’s hands are back in his hair, petting him, appreciative. “You’re so fucking good.”

It’s the perfect opportunity to press himself closer, put his lips against his vent. “I love the sounds you make.”

“Dirk.” His heart is racing, his pulse throbbing throughout his gut, and the hot moisture of Dirk’s saliva is gradually dissipating into the surrounding air, leaving him chilled and eager. His body temperature is lower than Dirk’s; Dirk, whose tongue feels hotter than ever as it trails wetly over the entrance to his cloaca, salivating for the scent of him. “ _Fuck._ ”

“I love how you taste.” And he’s ducking back in, licking his lips and working up a spit to push his tongue beneath his cloacal flap, firm as he licks within him and fucks him open. There’s saliva dripping down his chin, dribbling over Caliborn’s skin as Dirk grips his thighs and spreads them apart to eat him out.

“Oh, _god_ , fuck.” His eyes are closed, his muscles pulled tight in the backs of his thighs, in the core of his stomach, hard and everted and brushing stickily against Dirk’s face as he busies himself between his legs, licking and lunging and breathing out hot through his nose, nudged where his pubes would be if he had any. “Oh god, fuck me, just…”

Dirk’s tongue leaves him, and leaves him straining for returned attention. He watches as Dirk sucks his fingers into his mouth, coating spit amply slick and welled on his skin, and sees his fingers disappear inside him, thrusting slowly, gently rocking up, his thumb catching the rim of his slit and fanning from side to side. He tilts his head back, his lips parted, teeth bared, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of his own stimulation, tasting the scent in the roof of his mouth, needy for Dirk’s affection. 

He shifts his hips, angled towards Dirk’s hand in hopes it makes it easier on his wrist, his neck pushed forward awkwardly as he sinks in the seat of the chair. Dirk’s hand is gripped tightly to his hip, holding him steady as he fucks him with his other hand, and Dirk keeps his fingers fully slipped inside him as he lowers his head again, lips flush to the opposite hemipenis, his stubble scratchy on the inside of his thigh.

“Please,” Caliborn begs, eyes open just enough to watch him suck him into his mouth again, with equal effort on each side. “Please, please make me come.”

Dirk’s tongue is hot, smooth, and never stops moving; his two fingers are angled just right to keep him satisfied but not stretched too far; every time he darts his own tongue out, he’s reminded of the blended sex signals they’re both giving off, attuned to each other, ramped up and cycling in sync.

Caliborn holds onto the arms of the chair, his legs laid heavily on Dirk’s shoulders, his shins trembling as he nears climax. He stares at Dirk’s lips, full and wet, flushed with his exertion, sucking him down with filthy sounds that make him shudder and clench around the girth of Dirk’s fingers.

“I’m gonna come,” he says, gasping, arching for it. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“Mmm,” Dirk hums, eager, pleased, smiling with his eyes as he looks up over the slender plane of Caliborn’s stomach, his chin angled just shy of where his wrist is resting. It’s intense, intimate, and Caliborn’s calves go taut as he comes, in flesh and in phantom limb, shuddering with warmth all the way through his toes as he pulses and swells, small enough still to fit completely within the heat of Dirk’s mouth as he laps off every gradual burst of ejaculate.

“Fuck! Fuck, _ahh_ , I’m coming—”

And he feels the loss on one side as his orgasm ebbs away, where Dirk’s already followed the thread forward to the next step, or several steps ahead, even; his lips close over him on the other side, the original source of stimulus, slurping wetly on him and licking in quick, pointed flicking, his fingers still fucking him slowly, satisfying to thrust onto as he lets himself sink boneless into the chair, awash in waves of heat, fixated entirely on the steady, consistent, and increasing frequency of Dirk’s mouth sucking him down and lapping at him until he’s shuddering again with his head back, gasping Dirk’s name and uttering expletives in breathy syllables, feeling himself let go and release onto his waiting tongue, twice in two minutes.

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking hot.” Dirk kisses his thigh, his lips sticky with come and saliva, and leans his head on Caliborn’s leg. He keeps his hand where it’s at, where Caliborn is still clenching around his fingers, reluctant to let go.

“Holy fuck, what the fuck.” Caliborn laughs, airily, flooded with endorphins. “You’re uh.”

Dirk kisses his skin again. “I’m what?”

Caliborn sighs, still trying to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling almost as fast as it was while he was orgasming. “You’re so fucking good.”

“Every iteration earns me some improvement.” Dirk smiles. “And I get like, twice the practice in, each time.”

Caliborn pets his head, his fingers in Dirk’s hair while Dirk’s fingers remain inside him. “You’ve hit the level cap. You’re perfect.”

Dirk slowly pulls his hand away, careful to lean in and lick away the wetness from Caliborn’s cloaca and his dripping fingers before anything gets on the seat. “I got all the levels in giving you head.”

He’s colder now, exposed to the air and still coated in spit, but Dirk’s cheek is warm on his thigh, his breath as he exhales between his legs. “This is the new game plus.”

“Oh yeah?” Dirk’s hand finds his right knee, rubs at him just above the prosthesis. “What’s in the new game plus?”

“We already unlocked everything else, right?” Caliborn lets his eyes fall completely closed. “So now we get to get each other off a lot.”

“Right.” Dirk pats the top of his thigh. “That’s the fun bonus section. You just fuck around forever.”

“Yeah.” Caliborn tucks a lock of hair behind Dirk’s ear, behind the industrial barbell that spans across it. “That’s what I want to do. Fuck around forever, with you.”

Dirk tilts his head to the side, inclined in a gesture towards the monitor above him. “And with any luck, this shit won’t crash on you again.”

Caliborn shrugs, exhausted, sated. “If it does, I’ll get over it.”

“That’s what I like about you, y’know.”

“What?”

Dirk shifts further forward, to nudge the top of his head against the hem of Caliborn’s sweater, his cheek against his hip, open to receiving pets. “Even when shit’s fucking up, you don’t let it get you down.”

“It hasn’t been easy.” Caliborn lets his fingers run through Dirk’s hair, mindful of his claws as they cross his scalp, tracing down to the nape of his neck, where it’s too often been severed from his shoulders. “But I can’t afford to stop.”

“You can now.” Dirk lets out a deep breath, sighing into the crease of Caliborn’s hip and thigh. “You deserve to rest.”

He strokes his hands down Dirk’s back, to twirl his fingers into the strap of his tank top, keeping him close. “You wanna hear something?”

“Yeah.”

Caliborn spends a moment watching him, the way he had so long ago, at a different desk in front of a repurposed monitor, to see Dirk spacing out on Earth at his own desk while dreaming awake. “I didn’t think I’d ever have this.”

Dirk huffs a laugh into his lap. “What, Photoshop?”

“This.” Caliborn squeezes at Dirk’s shoulder. “You.”

“Aww, dude.” Dirk tightens his arms around Caliborn’s waist.

“I’m serious.” He brings his hand back to brush his thumb over the fullness of Dirk’s eyebrow, to cup the kind of gaunt side of his face. “It still seems too good to be true, sometimes.”

“Even from here?” Dirk smiles against Caliborn’s skin. “As supreme overlord of boymanga heaven, with the view atop your mountain of prizes?”

Caliborn snorts. “Yes, even though I’m the champion of accomplishing all games ever.”

“I wasn’t gonna just leave you there.” Dirk kisses his thigh, sideways, with the corner of his mouth, halfway still into the air. “Not like that.”

“I think anybody else would’ve.” Caliborn runs his knuckles along Dirk’s cheek, gentle. “I don’t say this shit a lot, or even really try to dwell on it.”

“But?”

“But.” He looks back to the screen, where the hazy grey blankness of deadened, post-diluvian, post-post-apocalyptic Earth stares back at him, out of his adolescent memories. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Probably with a lot less horse jokes in your life.” 

Caliborn grins. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Well, I love you, man.” Dirk kisses his thigh one more time, and extracts himself from Caliborn’s lap, to sit back on his heels. “But my legs are killing me.”

Caliborn sticks his tongue out. “As opposed to mine killing me?”

Dirk offers him his hand, and he takes it. Dirk’s fingers are still sticky with drying saliva. “C’mon, dude. Wash your crotch, somebody slobbered all over it.”

Caliborn lets Dirk help him stand up, and stands beside him, still covered completely on top and naked from the waist down, in contrast to Dirk’s tank top and jeans. “Fair point.”

Dirk draws him into a hug. Caliborn lets Dirk hold his weight and sinks into it, nuzzling against his collarbone where the tank top doesn’t cover it.

“I already said it like a ton, but hey.” Dirk kisses the top of his head and strokes down his back through the sweater. “I love you, dude. For real.”

“Yeah. I love you, too.” Caliborn lets out a sigh against Dirk’s chest. “That fakeness attribute is a guaranteed zero.”

“As real as circles are fake.” Dirk lets go and grins at him. “But yeah, like. Shower and I’ll cook us something while you finish drawing.”

“So I don’t just sit here eating candy?”

“ _You_ can, and since I’m functionally immortal I probably can too, but I choose not to.” Dirk offers his hand again, and Caliborn takes it as they exit the room together. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you.” Caliborn squeezes his hand as they fall into step with each other. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

“I’m proud of you too.” Dirk squeezes back. “And we can continue complimenting each other once I’m eating something that isn’t your junk.”

Caliborn rolls his eyes and gives Dirk a look that is utterly unconvincing as anything other than affectionate. “Yeah, all right.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is like the opposite of caliborn eating dirk, right
> 
> right
> 
>  


End file.
